Cry Out
by silbecoo
Summary: Bellamy and Clarke find their paths to forgiveness, together and apart.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: First Clarke/Bellamy fic I've ever written. I miss those two so much right now. :O This is basically a canon fic, that only very slightly alters the end of the season finale, and then pushes past it. I hope people read and enjoy it. Let me know what you think, I appreciate any feedback I can get.**

"If you need forgiveness… I forgive you, Clarke." Bellamy's words are desperate, his voice nearly cracking with the emotion running through them. He can see it in her eyes, she's slipping through his fingers and he's only just got her back.

His hand finds hers, interlocking the fingers until their palms are flush, the heat between them pulsing with each heartbeat. He's afraid to repeat the question and scare her off like a skittish animal, so he just waits, and miracle of miracles she nods, leaning into the tug of his arm. Relief washes over him in a flood and he guides her back into the shelter.

That night, there's celebration. Their people are relieved to be free once again, but the tension that's just under the surface is like the taught skin of a wardrum, just waiting for a broad palm to slam down on it. It's guilt mixed with apprehension, and it makes everyone on edge. The raucous gathering that spontaneously erupts is the result of this this strange amalgamation of emotion, and it feels wrong to be so carefree, but everyone knows it can't last so they cling to it.

Clarke cannot stand it. She's haunted by the faces of the mountain people that will never again smile or dance in reckless abandon, and it's no surprise to Bellamy that when he glances out over the group of their friends that she's nowhere to be seen.

He knows exactly where he'll find her, holed in the the med bay all alone as she smudges lines of charcoal across the blank expanse of a wrinkled piece of paper. She hoards the alabaster sheets like they're gold, and in a sense they are. There's a limited amount of art supplies, and they're mostly still tucked away inside the mountain, a place she's certain she'll never re-enter.

She jumps when he touches her shoulder, as though his hands are made of ice, twisting around on the exam table to face him. He can see the goosebumps chase across the back of her neck, uncharacteristically exposed with her hair piled on top of her head. She looks so much younger with the golden locks swept away from her features. Her face is all round and innocent and he's overcome with the urge to cup her cheeks and draw her close to him, laying his forehead against hers. He's thought about it so many times that for a second he doesn't even realize that's exactly what he's doing.

"Bellamy…"

His name is a half whispered sigh, and he can feel it blowing out against his own lips. When he kisses her it's gentle, a tentative probing against the seam of her lips before his tongue darts in her mouth. She taste like… well, Clarke. The faintest hint of something sweet leftover from dinner, berries maybe, and something primal that he's been craving for longer than he can remember.

He's astonished at the way she responds, lifting her whole body closer, arms darting around his neck, pulling him tight with a strength he's seen in action many times, but never felt quite so acutely. All this happens so quickly, he can barely catalogue the sensations for future reference, but he tries with all his might. For some reason it all feels incredibly tenuous, like it's a dream he's about to wake up from.

He steps closer, notching himself between her legs. In response, her thighs lock around his and she pulls him down to the exam table, sweeping her sketches into the floor. The fluttering paper catches his eye, and he breaks away from her, unable to look away.

The likeness of Maya stares back up at him, her expressive face and wide eyes captured so expertly by Clarke's deft strokes. Bellamy's impressed with her skill, as always, but it isn't the likeness that stills his arms at her sides, rather it's the absolute horror on the girl's face, tears streaming down her soft cheeks. When he looks at Clarke again, his expression is pained, his chest constricting as he struggles to get the words.

Shaking her head, Clarke begins to cry. "No, Bellamy, please… I killed her."

This time when his arms go around her he crushes her to his chest, letting her sob against the soft cotton of his t-shirt. He's never realized just how small she is, how incredibly fragile. He's never seen this side of her, and something inside of him shatters, sobs racking his own frame as they stand entwined.

"We're in this together, Clarke. Fifty/fifty." His voice is thick with the tears he's shed, but he has to tell her what he's thinking. "I'm still up in that mountain too."

"Only because I sent you there."

And there it is, a kind of anguish he's never heard before, so filled with regret it makes his heart stop in his chest. He pulls back, lifting the tail of his shirt to wipe the tears from her face. "No… I went because I had to. If you hadn't said it, someone else would have. It was our only option."

"Like flipping the switch? Was that our only option?" She's staring up at him, hoping for some kind of absolution or condemnation. The mountain people were not the only lost souls on earth.

"Yes." He's adamant, unyielding in his answer. It's what he tells himself everytime he thinks of the name 'Lovejoy' every time he closes his eyes and sees the shooting stars flaming out in the night, but she's already shaking her head no, pulling away.

"There had to be something else. There HAD to be." The resolution in her voice is terrifying, and when she shimmies just out of his reach, it's like he's lost a limb. "Clarke, no, please…"

He's begging her, something he never thought he'd ever find himself doing again. Begging for mercy had never gotten him anywhere, but he needs her to stay. As she walks through the med bay doors, he realizes with a start that she never agreed to stay with him, and that she'd always intended to leave. Perhaps she would have snuck out in the middle of the night when no one was looking, maybe left him a concise note explaining her decision.

He runs out after her, his boots slipping in the mud as he rounds the side of the lean-to. She's nowhere to be seen. He can hear the revelers a short distance away, chanting some song they'd recently learned from the grounders, banging on little drums nestled between their knees. The rhythm is frantic and it matches the beat of his heart as he dashes to the entrace of the camp, yelling her name. "Clarke!"

There's no response, and he doesn't see any flash of silver blonde hair in the moonlight, no matter how hard he searches. She's gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: When I wrote the first chapter, I didn't really know what this story was going to be about, but as I was writing this one, something akin to inspiration struck. Let me know what you think, all feedback is greatly appreciated.**

The rain pours down in a thick mist, soaking Bellamy to the skin as it collects and drips from the leaves over his head. Hours have passed since he's seen any viable prey, but trudging through the thick undergrowth on the edge of the forest is preferable to fielding questions in the mess hall back at camp Jaha.

It gets colder with each passing day, and the sky people have been holing up in their makeshift shacks avoiding the chill. It's beginning to make Bellamy antsy. Hunting is his only respite, the quiet like a balm to soothe his anxious thoughts.

When Clarke first disappeared, he'd gone straight to Abby, insisting that they send out search parties and bring her back. Abby had agreed, letting Bellamy take out a group of eager young trackers. But it had all come to naught. The trail had ran cold at the edge of a stream. Bellamy wouldn't give up though, going out day after day and walking up and down the riverbed, trying to figure out where she had crossed to the other side. It was clear to him now that she'd taken measures not to be followed.

He shoulders the bow, dropping the pretense of looking for prey. He's just hiking now, getting farther and farther away from the camp, pushing into the woods. There's a bluff line to the west that he's been meaning to explore. The caves seem like a good place to take shelter as the rain begins to come down harder.

Just as he breaks through the foliage, he hears a sharp cry echoing off the wet gray rocks. It sets alarm bells in his head off, and he's running before his brain even has time to calculate whether or not he's walking into a trap.

He stops at the mouth of the closest cavern. The fading light is dampened by the trees overhead, and he can barely see more than ten feet into the space. In the past, he wouldn't have thought twice about dashing into the unknown to help someone in distress, but he's still plagued by the memory of being snatched in the caves below the mountain, and distrust rules his every action now.

But he hears it again, a yell that morphs into painfully moaned words. "Is someone there?"

The voice is familiar, but only just so. Her vocal chords a worn, and the question is so hoarse that it's almost a whisper, but Bellamy rushes into the dark to find it's source, his heart jumping in his throat. "Clarke?"

He snags one of the flashlights Raven modified, and cranks the handle on the side until a weak beam of light shoots out against the sandstone. She's laying in a crumpled heap against the back wall, one arm held close to her chest cradling a small bundle.

For a moment, he thinks he's looking at a ghost. The color is gone from her lips, her face an ashen pallor that makes his stomach drop to his toes. It's evident that she's lost blood, a lot of it.

He's on his knees in a matter of seconds, probing her for injuries in the fading beam of the flashlight. When his hands skim down over her legs, he finds her knee wrenched around at an odd angle, a shirt ripped into rags knotted at her thigh. For now, the blood is no longer flowing, her blood soaked pants rust colored now as it dries.

He's so engrossed in the horror of her condition, that he barely feels her cold fingers at the back of his neck, threading up through his hair. He's let it get longer than normal, the black fringe brushing along the edge of his collar. It's only when she croaks out his name that he feels her touch.

"Shh, shh, don't speak. Save your energy."

"We're c-cold."

Of course she's cold, the temperature is dropping rapidly, and her heart is working diligently to divert her remaining lifeblood to her major organs, leaving her limbs under circulated. He needs to get her back to camp immediately, but carrying her through the increasingly heavy rain seems like a bad idea. He's in the process of trying to figure out a way to generate some warmth, when her choice of words suddenly strikes him as odd.

"We?"

She nods weakly, reaching up to pull aside a piece of the linen comprising the bundle in her arms, and Bellamy is greeted with the small round face of a sleeping infant. He's speechless, staring with wide eyes at the unbelievable sight. "How?"

"I found her in the forest, abandoned." She pulls back the linens some more to reveal the little girl's hands. "Polydactyly. She has six fingers on both hands." He can hear the anger trembling in her voice. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with her, and they threw her away."

He sheds his coat before sliding down beside her, soaked as it is it would cause more harm than good as he wraps his arms around her shivering shoulders, covering the child once again. There are so many questions swirling inside his brain, each vying for a spot at the front of the line. He pushes them away, concentrating on the matter at hand.

"Clarke, as soon as it stops raining, we're out of here, ok?"

He doesn't ask what he's really wondering, if she'll make it that long. She would tell him if they need to leave immediately. She merely nods against his chest where he's holding her, and that's enough for him. He settles in to wait for the shower to end, stroking her hair until the child between them begins to mewl hopelessly.

"She's hungry. We have to go soon."

"We'll give it fifteen minutes. If it doesn't let up, we'll figure something out."

There's an old melody his mother used to sing to Octavia when she was upset, cradling her close under the blankets until the muffled sobs evened out into strained hiccups. He searches his mind for the words, but can only come up with a semblance of the melody. Humming it, he starts and stops as his memory falters.

After a few minutes, the weak sound of Clarke's exhausted voice joins his own, and for the first time since she left he feels like things might actually turn out okay. It's a thought with no basis in reality. Nevertheless, the tension in his chest he's been carrying around for the past couple for months finally eases up, and it's like he can finally breathe again.


	3. Chapter 3

The moon is out, and Bellamy is grateful for small blessings, because otherwise he'd be marching blindingly through dangerous terrain with an infant sleeping fitfully in the sling against his chest, as he pulls Clarke behind him. Instead the moon casts a ghostly silver gleam over the forest floor, light glinting off the waxy leaves of squat little bushes.

Clarke lays crumpled in the makeshift stretcher, hastily lashed together tree branches cradle her bundled up form. It appears they inadvertently found an abandoned shelter, firs tossed in a pile at the back of the cave. They have a somewhat fetid scent, but it's a small price to pay to ward off hypothermia.

He knows it's better that she stay awake, but he cringes each time he hears her groan at the bumpy trail, ignoring the burning sensation in his arms and shoulders as he doggedly marches on. She's clinging to the travois for dear life as he pulls it across the damp moss of the forest floor.

His eyes flit around, alternately looking for landmarks and dangerous creatures. By his own calculations they are getting within earshot of the camp, if not quite within sight.

"Bellamy."

It's a whisper, but his ears are primed to pick up the slightest sounds, adrenaline pumping through his veins amping up his senses. He stops, worried that she's in too much pain. Her face isn't contorted though. In fact, she's gazing rather dreamily up at the stars through a gap in the canopy over them. "Wells… do you think we'll ever make it down there?"

The strange question prompts him to examine her more closely. There's sheen of perspiration on her forehead, and when he touches the back of his hand to her skin she might as well be on fire. There must be an infection settling into the gash on her leg. He has no idea how long she was in the cave, but judging from the progression of her condition it's pretty serious.

They're at the edge of the forest now, he can see a few tiny twinkling lights in the distance, torches posted at the entrance of the camp. Bellamy takes in a lungful of air, extending his diaphragm as far as it will before letting loose with a wild yell. "HELP!"

This startles the baby at his chest, her piercing wails joining his cries for assistance. Clarke stares at both of them like they're hallucinations peaking through a thin veil in front of her. He hefts the stretcher behind him once again, and pulls with every bit of strength left in his body, continuing his dramatic S.O.S.

His lungs are ready to give out when he sees them, Lincoln and Octavia both running toward them, flashlights and guns both pointed out in front of them. Bellamy falls to his knees, panting as his sister closes the gap between them, lowering her gun when she recognizes her brother.

"Bell?"

She infuses his name with relief and confusion, reaching down to help him up. Her eyes are huge when she finally finds the source of the incessant screaming. "What the hell happened?"

"I found Clarke, we have to get her to Abby. She's got a fever."

He reaches down to start pulling her along again, but Lincoln places a hand on his shoulder. "Let me."

Nodding, Bellamy watches as Lincoln scoops her up, gently tucking the furs around her before turning wordlessly back toward the camp. He can hear her muttering softly to herself about trees and rivers and rain. She's still dreaming of the perfect world they thought was floating beneath the ark.

If Abby Griffin knows how to do anything, it's compartmentalization. She dons the facade of the impartial doctor as soon as Clarke lifted onto the exam table. All things considered, it doesn't look too bad. If she weren't able to set aside the gut wrenching feelings of motherly empathy, she wouldn't be able to see that Clarke's injuries are not that bad, that the first thing she needs to attend to is the gash on her daughter's upper thigh.

The wound is puffy and red, edges ragged where shards of rock tore at the skin, nicking an artery in the perfect place. Clarke's medical training has saved her life, the blood has long since been staunched, a good amount of swelling finishing the job. What worries Abby is the pus around the edges, and the heat radiating from the skin. Tell tale signs of an infection.

She's like a machine, cleaning the wound so she can get to the femoral artery and stitch it back together, clearing the wound as she goes along. Clarke has long since passed out from the pain, but not before Abby got her to drink several cups of willow bark tea. It was the only thing available to control the fever.

She curses under her breath as the light suspended over her flickers. She'd give anything to be in a real medical facility, to have access to all the tools and medicines she needs. It's moments like these that the bitterness begins to crawl back up her throat, that the walls she builds around each part of herself begin to crumble.

Bellamy had hovered over her anxiously in the beginning, rocking a strange child in his arms as it cried feebly. She'd given him a bottle of goat's milk and told him to make himself and the child scarce. She needed to concentrate.

That was over an hour ago, and she's just getting to a point where the urgency of the situation is beginning to ebb. The wound is closed, fine little stitches pulling the skin back together. It's the first time she's had a chance to take in her daughter's overall condition.

She knows the baby isn't Clarke's. There hasn't been enough time for that sort of thing, but she can't help but wonder how the two came together. Clarke's knee is wrenched horribly, and Abby wonders if she tore some ligaments. The kneecap moves a little too freely when Abby pushes against it, in spite of the swelling. Only time will tell in this particular case.

Otherwise, Clarke seems to be in fairly healthy condition, although somewhat dehydrated. She won't be able to move much for the next couple weeks, but she's alive and in no imminent danger.

Prognosis complete, Abby slips out of doctor mode, hands gently resting on either side of her daughter's face. Dropping to her knees, a painful sob wracks her, and she trembles as her forehead rests against the edge of the table.

She cries until it seems like there aren't any more tears left inside, and yet more come. A hand drops to her shoulder, squeezing gently to get her attention. Looking up, it's Bellamy's concerned visage peering at her, alarm clear in his eyes even as his face remains stoic.

He nods to Clarke, adam's apple bobbing as he swallows with some difficulty. "Is she…?"

He trails off, not wanting to voice the words that have been pressing on his vocal chords for the past hour. It takes Abby a second to understand his meaning, watching him plead with his expressive eyes. When she finally understands, she immediately reassures him. "She's fine, or at least she will be."

She looks at him as though she's never seen him before, and in truth she never really has. For the first time he looks like an adult in her eyes, legs planted a shoulder's width apart, a fiercely protective scowl on his face… a child in his arms.

The child. Of course, that is her next course of action. Examining the little creature and figuring out just why the hell she had come with her daughter back to camp is the first order of business. Once again the Dr. Griffin comes back out to play, and she reaches for the sleeping child. "Where did she come from?"

Bellamy passes her over, cradling her little head gently as she slips into Abby's arms, feeling at loose ends with nothing to occupy his hands. "Clarke said she found her in the woods, abandoned… You know the grounders' customs."

Abby frowns, wondering what defect the little one had that made her life forfeit. She opens the fresh linens, running her hands over the baby's soft pink skin, marveling at how delicate she is. When she reaches the child's hands, a quiet little "ah" escapes her.

She traces the extra pinkie gently. It's the most perfect extra finger she's ever seen. Most cases she's read about have not been functioning digits, but this one is perfectly proportioned and the joints are all formed correctly. "As far as mutations go, this one is fairly innocuous. In fact, there were many cases of polydactyly before the wars and radiation even happened."

Bellamy shakes his head. "You know how they are. They see mutations as a blight, something that will taint the blood." The statement drips with disgust and anger, the hands at his sides balling into fists.

"Yes, the social ramifications of their customs are… worrisome, to say the least, but don't judge too hastily, Bellamy. Grounders' survival depends on being part of a community. This was probably the hardest decision her parents ever made."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, for one thing, she's not a newborn. She's at the very least three weeks old, and up until her little adventure in the woods, she'd been fed regularly." Abby rocks the baby when she starts to fuss, cooing at her a little. "Did you have any trouble with the goat's milk?"

Shaking his head, Bellamy feels a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "She devoured it." He's strangely proud of her voracious appetite.

"That's good…" She's gazing at the child now, speaking absentmindedly. "We'll have to find a way to supplement the goat's milk with minerals and vitamins. I'm sure I can think of something. We'll hand her over to Harper. She's taken to watching after the children."

"No." Bellamy and Abby both turn to face the source of the voice. Clarke is struggling to sit upright, face twisted in pain. "She's my responsibility."/b

Abby shakes her head. "Clarke, no. As it is I'm going to have to assign someone to look after you while you heal. You can't take care of a child."

As if to protest her mother's assertion, Clark swings her uninjured leg over the side of the table, face going white as a sheet with pain. "I'm fine. I have to take care of her." If the words weren't said through clenched teeth, her assertion might be a bit more believable.

Frustration ripples through Abby, and she can feel angry words bubbling up. No one can push her buttons like her daughter. "Look, Clarke, this is not happening. I-"

Bellamy cuts her off, gently laying a hand on her arm. "Dr. Griffin… I'll look after Clarke, under your instruction of course… and the child too."

They haven't had many pleasant interactions, and Abby is ready to fight him on this too, but once again she is struck by how very different he seems from the young boy she remembers. He stares at her with a quiet determination, and something else she can't quite figure out. It makes her snap her mouth shut, leaning forward to place the little girl back in his arms.

"Fine." She can't help but be a little terse. This is the umpteenth time Bellamy and Clarke have undercut her decision making, but she sees no real argument against it. "Go to Harper and get some suitable clothes and bedding for the child. I'll write out some basic instructions to get you through the night." Turning to Clarke, she points an accusatory finger. "And you. You are not leaving the infirmary tent for at least two days, no arguments."

Clarke nods, trying to hide the little grin on her face.

 **A/N: as always, all feedback and suggestions are greatly appreciated.**


	4. Chapter 4

The first night alone with the squirming little bundle of dissatisfaction isn't going well. Bellamy can barely remember the things his mother taught him about babies, and he twitches awake every time hear hears the faintest squeak of unhappiness. He can't count the number of times he's swung his legs out from under the heavy blanket on his cot only to find her still sleeping. He's back in the ark, trying to make himself at home in the tiny metal cubicle. It's so much like the one he spent his entire life in that it's a little unsettling.

Claustrophobia was not a thing when they were all floating in space. If anything, sometimes the opposite was true. All you had to do was look out any of the windows on the space station and you'd see infinite nothing rolling out in front of you. He'd only ever found it slightly unsettling, but he knew more than a few people who studiously avoided looking out into the black void.

Here it's different. When he's outside, he can see the hills rolling along the horizon, a wide expanse of blue sky like an airy dome above. He feels free and contained at the same time. An unexpected rush of happiness zips through him each time he steps through the camp gates, only to be damped by more serious things in a matter of seconds. He never really thought he'd find himself looking at these cold walls again. He briefly gets the sensation of being in a cage, and it makes him shudder.

But Abby put him here, in a surprising effort to be helpful. It is warmer than the drafty shacks and lean-to's the majority of their people had moved into, and it's close to the infirmary. The proximity is comforting, and this time when the little one starts to fuss, he drops a bottle of chilled goat's milk into a simmering pan of water. He feels a twinge of guilt as he looks at the little camp stove. It's one of the many things that have been scavenged from the mountain.

The little girl lets out another impatient cry, and he picks her up from her temporary cradle, cautiously checking to see if she needs changed. There's a stack of fresh cloth diapers on the folding table beside his cot. A chunk of the nursery was one of the things that landed on earth miraculously intact after the ark plummeted. They're incredibly soft, made from the worn out scraps of clothing of many people long since gone. Nothing ever went to waste up there.

The distasteful job is over in seconds, the task coming back to him like he'd never forgotten it. She swings her fists around like she's searching for something, and only stops when one of them is shoved between her hungrily sucking lips. For the first time he really looks at her, taking in her infantile features. He can hardly believe how big her eyes are. Gleaming with tears as they are now, they sparkle as she stares up at him. And there's the faintest sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose, not unlike his own.

Octavia comes to mind almost immediately. She was once small and fragile like this, arms wide open every time he walked into the room. His heart clenches at the memory. It's not the same anymore, which isn't a bad thing, but there are moments when he wishes she didn't have to be so strong, didn't have to hide her natural tendency towards curiosity and love. It's the world they live in, and it pains him to think of this little child needing to learn those same lessons.

He snatches the bottle from the pan of water, testing the temperature of the milk on the skin of his arm like Abby instructed him. It's warm but not hot, which should be fine. He barely has time to touch the milk soaked cloth to her lips before she's pulling at it, her little pink tongue palpating the material. Abby's contraption is something he never would have thought up. They had rubber nipples on the ark for the women who couldn't breastfeed, but down here it's difficult to find anything rubber that isn't cracking or falling apart, and the clean linen affixed to the tip of the glass bottle is a surprisingly efficient alternative.

Feeding done, he lifts the drowsy child to his shoulder, patting her back as he listens for the tiny little gasp of air. He doesn't remember Octavia being this difficult about burping. He remembers Abby's instructions and gets up to walk around as he continues to thump gently on her tiny back.

He's not exactly sure what propels him down the hall toward the infirmary, but he's powerless to stop his feet as they pad along the cold floor. It's dark in front of him, the only light coming from barely glowing runners along the side of wall. When he slips into the room lined with cots, his eyes immediately search out Clarke's tousled blonde head.

She's been sedated since her surgery, force fed a valerian root concoction that Niko so graciously showed Abby how to prepare. Bellamy can't help the smile that spreads across his face when he recalls Clarke's reaction to the medicine. "This smells like the inside of a wet shoe." Her face going green as she sniffed at the spoon.

Gazing down at her, he can't help but feel relief at how much better she already looks. Bathed and in a loose fitting tunic, she's almost angelic reclined against the cushion. It's hard to imagine her ruthlessly fighting off snarling reapers, pushing her way through the dank tunnels underneath the mountain, but he knows that strength is just under the surface.

When there's a loud burp in his ear, he almost jumps out of his skin, turning red in the face with embarrassment. He's grateful no one was around to see him behave so ridiculously. He's about to turn and leave when he hears a faint laugh coming from the cot in front of him.

Her eyes are droopy, and she's not awake exactly, but rather somewhere floating in limbo between dreamland and consciousness. "Bell." She whispers the diminutive, and the faint sound makes him shiver. He can't recall her using any nickname with him before. "Let me see her." Her request is singsong and Bellamy wonders briefly if Abby has her on pain medication.

He bends down, cradling the child in the crook of his elbow, displaying her for Clarke's approval. She smiles, tracing the tip of one finger down the little girl's cheek. "What's her name, Bell?"

"Atalanta." He blurts it out without thinking, eyes widening with surprise. Somewhere in the back of his mind he must have been thinking about what to name her for hours, because it fits perfectly. "Atalanta. She was one of Artemis's huntresses, swift and strong, left to die on top of a mountain when she was an infant, only to be saved by a fierce she-bear."

Clarke rolls her eyes, or at least tries to, but it ends up looking more like a child blinking slowly. "Attie for short though, right?"

He nods, this time fairly certain that she's got some high potency pain medication running through her veins. She won't remember any of this. "Right."

 **A/N: don't be shy about letting me know what you think. It's been a long time since I've had access to watching the show, let me know if I flub something really bad. :O All feed back is bronzed and hung on the wall for later admiration.**


	5. Chapter 5

Abby peels away the gauze from Clarke's injury, pursing her lips in thought as she examines the line of stitches. "Well, it looks like your body is fighting off the infection. You're really lucky. Without antibiotics it was the biggest threat to your recovery. Taking off like you did was really stupid."

The words are somewhat hard, but Clarke is used to this. In the past she mistook the sometimes clipped and harsh way her mother spoke to her for anger. Now she realized it was a defense mechanism. Fear was the actual emotion Clarke hears in the words now, and she regrets her decision to run away from camp without even letting her mother know she was leaving.

"Mom… I really am sorry."

Abby expertly cleans area around the stitches and begins to rebandage it, maintaining the straight line of her shoulders. Seeing her daughter white as a ghost on her operating table was not something she liked to dwell on. Her eyes finally dart back up from her task, sweeping across Clarke's face. "I sense there's a 'but' coming…"

Taking a deep breath, Clarke continues. "But I couldn't stay. I just _couldn't_." Her voice trembles on the last word. She's crying softly now, looking down at her hands as she tries to explain herself. "I know what I did was… necessary, but it doesn't make it okay. Knowing that doesn't make it feel any better. I couldn't look at Jasper or Monty or anyone really, knowing they'd seen my ruthlessness, my... " She begins to hiccup, giving up on her explanation.

Abby's face falls, a similar grief washing over her as she draws her daughter into a tight embrace. "That's regret, honey."

"There were innocent people in there."

"There are always innocent people."

"I see their faces in my sleep, contorted with pain on the flickering monitors. They open their mouths to scream but it's utter silence as they crumple to the floor. I was having one of those dreams when I found the little girl. Suddenly it wasn't just silence pouring out of their anguished faces, but the ear piercing wails of a crying infant." She swallows with some difficulty, sucking in a sharp breath. "I've made so many mistakes."

Rather than murmur consoling words into her daughter's hair like she wants, Abby unlocks the cage around her heart, tears rolling down her cheeks as she speaks. "I wanted to die after your father was executed. Knowing you were slated for the same fate shredded my insides to pieces. Everywhere I looked there were bad decisions. All I wanted was to save the lives of my people, and I failed epically."

Pulling back, Abby stares at her daughter, for the first time speaking to her like an adult. "You will never forget their faces, and the pain will make a home nestled beside your heart. Sometimes it will make you angry and bitter, and you'll say things you don't mean, lash out at people you love, but running away from it is useless. The memories don't go away, but they do change, and you change along with them."

The words aren't exactly comforting to Clarke, but they have a ring of truth to them, and she appreciates the honesty. She sighs, hugging her mother tight, sensing that she's not finished.

"Doctors take an oath to do no harm. It's something dating back hundreds of years, healers swearing before gods. Leaders do not have the luxury of looking at things in such black and white terms. I'm sorry you had to have such a rough passage into adulthood, and I wish you could retain your idealism just a little longer."

"I'm just as self serving as President Wallace, just as ruthless as Lexa, and as cold as Jaha."

Abby shakes her head. "Don't think for one second that they don't feel this pain, or that regret doesn't follow them around like a shadow every second of every day. That's what it means to be a leader Clarke."

"I'm just so tired. I can't do this."

"You don't have to do it, honey. Take time to heal, and I'm not talking about your leg." She pushes her back against the pillow. "You know, I can still have Harper take the baby, so you can have some time to yourself."

Clarke shakes her head. "No, I can't explain it, but… Attie's my responsibility."

"Attie? You named her? I don't think it's such a good idea to-"

"Bell did." She frowns, trying to recall when she heard him say the name, but it's all foggy like she's looking through a smeared window. "Or at least I think he did…"

"Bell?" Abby shoots her a wary look when she hears the name, so like an endearment, fall from her daughter's lips. Abby may be on good terms with him now, but she still doesn't fully trust him. He's too much of a loose canon, too eager to spring into action without thinking first. It's a dangerous way to be in this world.

Her stern expression does nothing to alter the soft look on Clarke's face, a faint blush creeping up her neck as she nods. "Yes, Bellamy. I think he came to check in on me last night… or maybe he was just walking Attie around so she'd fall asleep. I don't really know."

Oh, hell, and just like that Abby's seeing Clarke for the teenager she is again, disapproval and worry filling her up. She pulls away from her daughter. "All I'm saying is you need to be careful about letting yourself get attached. We don't _know_ that she was abandoned."

Abby's warning is not subtle. Bellamy isn't the person she would choose to make her daughter happy. It's frustrating to Clarke, but she's too tired to argue the point. Which isn't even a point anyway, Bellamy is just her friend, and a reluctant one at that… She's long since decided to pretend their kisses all those months ago didn't happen. It's just easier that way. Romantic entanglements do not, historically, end well for her.

"That's not fair to, um, her… she's just a child. She deserves to be loved."

Abby nods solemnly, stroking her daughter's face one last time before backing away. "Yes, she does. Get some rest, Clarke."

 **A/n: kind of a transitional chapter. There should be more actual plot advancement in the next one. :D Comments and feedback are stuck to the fridge as a replacement for the artwork of my nonexsitent children (my only babies are fictional characters). :D**


	6. Chapter 6

Days later, when Abby gives Clarke the okay to leave the infirmary, she's still barely able to hope along, leg awkwardly stiff in a full brace. Abby was right about the ligaments in her knee being torn. The flesh is bruised and tender with swelling under the bandages. Her mother was hesitant to say whether or not it would heal properly, but it's not something that bothers Clarke. A slight limp is the least of her concerns.

What does bother her is that at present she is totally incapable of being independent. She vaguely recalls Bellamy offering to help with her recovery. The memory's a little fuzzy around the edges, kind of like everything from that day. Sometimes she closes her eyes, trying to remember how Bellamy got her back to camp, but all she sees are stars peeking through dark clouds, and the faint hum of a lullaby her mother used to sing to her.

She's sitting on the edge of her bed in the infirmary, trying to figure out how to get from point A to point B when she hears faint knock. Raven is standing in the entryway, knuckles tapping on the wall to announce her arrival. It's a mixed bag of emotions Clarke feels watching her friend wait for an invitation. She's missed Raven, fiercely, but something dark still hangs between them and Clarke doesn't know if it will ever go away.

"What took you so long, Reyes?"

Clarke is rewarded by a soft laugh, and the brunette moves gracefully into the room. It seems as though in the months Clarke has been gone Raven has adapted to her injuries in more ways than one, compensating for the lack of movement with the muscles of her core. "Some of us have work to do around here. We can't just take time off to go hiking through the woods or visit reckless friends who end up nearly killing themselves."

There's still some bite to her words, but nothing like Clarke was expecting. Raven stops in front of her, one eyebrow arched in expectation. It's Clarke's turn to talk, and she's unsure of what to say. "Raven, I'm sorry-"

"Nope. No apologies. There are so few of us. We need to move on. There are no words that will ever changed what happened. In some small way I'm grateful for what you did, and I also pity the fact that it had to be you." She reaches in the pocket of her bomber jacket, pulling out a length of rope with little knots spaced at even intervals. "Besides, I have work to do."

And just like that, she's all business, wrapping the string around Clarke's leg at different points, scratching little notations on a scrap of yellowed paper, the graphite scratching softly in the silence between them.

"I should have you a working brace by the end of the day. It'll probably be uncomfortable, and we'll need to work some bugs out of it. These things are trial and error." She tucks the string back in her pocket and smiles at her friend. "I have _one_ more thing."

Before Clarke can say anything, Raven's gone, slipping out the doors into the hallway, only to return moments later with two rather intimidating looking devices. "I bequeath to you my old crutches. It's time to get off your butt and start helping out around here."

Clarke smiles, for the first time feeling a piece of her heart coming back to life. If Raven Reyes, someone who has lost nearly everything she's ever held dear, can smile in this bleak existence, then surely there is hope. "Are we okay, Raven?"

Raven takes her hand, squeezing at her fingers before leaning in for a hug. She whispers in Clarke's ear. "I still miss him, but life goes on. It's the living we have to worry about."

* * *

Clarke can hardly believe her eyes when she walks out into the grassy expanse in front of the ark. There are sturdy little huts forming along the perimeter, children running happily between smiling adults. She's drawn to an open faced structure to the left of these huts, smoke billowing in a controlled column. It smells wonderful, charred spices and woodsmoke drifting to her nose.

Her stomach rumbles loudly, and for a second she actually looks around to see where the noise is coming from, only to shake her head with embarrassment as she hobbles on over to the source of the scent.

Someone she only vaguely recognizes from her childhood looks up at her smiling pleasantly. the woman's eyes crinkle in an easy smile. She's older than her mother, but there's something soft about her face that's lacking in Abby's. "Clarke. How are you dear?"

It's exactly the opposite of what she thought would happen when people started to notice she was back. She fully expected people to look at her fearfully, or even angrily. For the first time she feels like the she's not wearing her choices like a cloak. She mumbles out a, "Fine, thanks," and tries to move on, but the woman his walking toward her with a kebab skewer of smoked meats.

"Your mother said you lost a lot of blood. Best way to rebuild your iron is meat."

Given no opportunity for protest, Clarke accepts the delicious smelling food, salivary glands springing to life at the sight. Her anemia undoubtedly plays a role in this, urging her to consume as much as possible. Suddenly she's starving, and the meat is like ambrosia on her tongue, She doesn't even care when the juice dribbles down her chin and onto her linen tunic.

She lived on berries, roots, and the odd squirrel here and there when she was alone in the woods. It was nutritionally sufficient, but there's something about the use of spices, the slightly charred edges of the meat, that just screams at what she's been missing by keeping herself away from other people.

So engrossed is she in eating, that she nearly jumps in terror when Bellamy lights his hand on her shoulder. "Whoa, easy. It's just me."

Swallowing, she's suddenly self conscious about the little stains on her shirt. She dashes away the drops on her chin and gingerly sets the skewer back on the cook's table. This is the first time she's seen Bellamy in the light of day in months, and she can't help but give him a thorough once over.

His hair is longer, obsidian waves all the way down to his collar, and if it's possible he looks more boyish and yet more manly than she remembers. The contradiction is strange. She thinks maybe it has something to do with the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. They're more prominent than they used to be, sun exposure probably. They offset his dark eyes, which currently carry the weight of exhaustion. Then her eyes reach his chest. Strapped across it like a sash declaring him king of the land is a light blue sheet turned baby sling, little Attie grasping fruitlessly at thin air.

"I was looking for you."

Snapped out of her observations by his short statement, Clarke jerks her eyes back up to his. "Well, you found me."

He shakes his head in amusement at her smart aleck response, the faintest smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Raven said you're ready to leave the infirmary?"

She nods, sensing that he has more to say, but he just stares at her. "And?"

"And, um… I don't know how you want to do this. You left before we started constructing shelters, so there's no real place for you. Of course, they're not that great anyway, but there's limited quarters on the ark, so they have to suffice."

"Where are you staying?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On you."

 **A/N: Thanks so much for the comments. I really appreciate them. They make writing such an enjoyable experience.**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Here's another chapter. I'd love to know what anyone who reads this thinks. Don't be shy about leaving comments or reviews.**

"On me?"

There's something about the way Bellamy is looking at Clarke, an indefinable expression sweeping across his features as he takes a deep breath. It sends a whisper of anticipation fluttering through her chest, a rosy blush flushing to the roots of her hair. She almost doesn't hear him when he answers her.

"Your mother and Kane have plans to relocate the camp."

This is the last thing Clarke expects to hear, anxiety clutching at her as her mother's plans become clear. There is only one place she could be thinking of taking their people. "They can't move us into the mountain. It isn't… It's just..." She's at a loss for words, the muscles in her throat constricting as she struggles to vocalize her objections.

Bellamy's lips are pressed into a thin seam, his own displeasure plainly evident. "I know. I understand their reasoning, but I can't go back there... not yet anyway..." Attie begins to fuss at Bellamy's chest, and his broad hands come up without thinking, tracing comforting circles on the infant's back. Clarke's eyes dart down to the squirming bundle, already quieting under his gentle touch. It's second nature to him, and he barely pauses before continuing. "And I thought you might feel the same way. In fact, most of the kids stuck in the mountain don't want to go back either."

She nods, watching him closely as he fidgets with the sash draped over his shoulder. Clearly his own aversion to returning to the mountain dwelling is something he doesn't like admitting. Instead, he focuses on Clarke. "But your mother… I don't think she'll listen to any of them, or even me."

"Surely we're not the only ones who would rather stay here." Stepping closer to him, she peeks down at the little girl. Big, clear eyes stare back up at her, curly eyelashes framing the golden irises. She's quite a little beauty, and Clarke is somewhat transfixed by her, tracing a chubby little cheek with the tip of her index finger. She's so close that she can feel the vibration of Bellamy's chest when he answers her.

"With winter coming, it hasn't been hard to convince the people around here that we need to find better shelter, but there are a few people who don't like the idea of trading one claustrophobic tin can for another."

"Round them up, and we'll call a meeting."

* * *

Clarke maneuvers herself rather clumsily to the front of the crowd, Bellamy standing at her back. He doesn't say it, but she's pretty sure he's positioning himself so that he'll catch her if her leg gives out. The muscles in her arms are throbbing from teetering along on crutches all day, and she's closer than she'd like to admit to slipping down onto the dusty floor and just drifting off to sleep.

But she can't do that. There's a group of murmuring people, adults and kids alike, standing behind her like a rag tag army, just waiting for her to begin. It's amazing to her how often she ends up in this position. After the massacre at the mountain, she'd never dreamed of being the mouthpiece for her people again.

Abby is staring at her, concern pulling down the corners of her mouth, arms folded across her chest in a way that Clarke finds all too familiar. Exasperation simmers just below the surface of her mother's calm exterior. It's strange how the Universe always seems to pit them against each other. It's not something Clarke would ever choose - this antagonism that so frequently colors their exchanges - but here they are again. She waits for her mother to begin.

"You called a meeting with the council; please state your business."

"Do you plan on moving the camp into Mount Weather?"

"Yes. The council has discussed it, and we've decided that it's our best option to weather a harsh winter and other hazards that we're not quite prepared to deal with." Abby makes the statement with the finality of a judge banging her gavel. The tone would brook no argument from the majority of the citizens of the ark, but Clarke simply ignores it, pressing her point.

"I'm sure it's occurred to you, knowing what went on up there, that many of the people who were once held prisoner there do not want to go back." There's a faint rumble of agreement behind Clarke. No one is ignorant of the horrors performed in the mountain, and many of the people at her back are accosted with fraught dreams on a nightly basis.

Abby opens her mouth to gently dissuade Clarke from her argument, but Kane interrupts her. "It's something we discussed, yes, but ultimately it wasn't enough to deter us." He's sick and tired of every one of their decisions being questioned, the expression on his face clearly conveying that sentiment.

Abby lights a hand on his arm, stopping his clipped response. She continues in a calm and measured voice. "There is a top-notch medical facility, climate control, and a water purification system that pumps water from water tables deep under the mountain. It would be stupid of us not to take advantage of this situation. Most of the Grounders have already migrated for the winter, and we aren't prepared to take such action. The mountain is our only option."

"I don't think that's true."

"Try to look at this without emotion, Clarke."

"Can't you have some compassion, some understanding?"

"We don't have the luxury of compassion."

"We're not on the Ark anymore. Decisions don't have to be so black and white. These people have been through so much! How can you expect Harper to go back up there after what they did to her? Or any of the other victims. They locked them in _cages_!" She sways a little when she says this, her gesticulations throwing her off-balance. Immediately, there's a warm touch at the small of her back - Bellamy's hand steadying her. "All I'm asking is that you give anyone who wants it a chance to live out here on their own."

Abby's hands are on her hips, holding a wide stance as she faces the disgruntled people before her. "You have a month. You need to get the solar panels working again, and have a plan for living quarters for every single person that decides to stay."

Kane steps in front of her. "Abby, this is ridiculous. They're-"

She cuts him off, throwing one hand up to plead for silence. "They're citizens, and they've earned their right to have a say in the way they live." Turning back to her daughter, she finishes. "I expect a housing plan with a list of all the people who intend to stay, and a report from Engineering on the viability of the Ark as a sustainable shelter by the end of the week."

Clarke lets out a sigh of relief, knees nearly buckling beneath her. Until this very moment, she hadn't realized how much going back had truly weighed on her. The exhaustion bowls over her like a herd of wild boars, and it's all she can do to nod in agreement and shuffle out into the hall on her crutches.

She barely even notices when Bellamy steers her to the left, holding her close as she hobbles toward the end of the hall. It's only when she's standing in the entryway of his quarters, one shoulder leaning heavily against the metal doorframe, that she understands where she is.

"This is your compartment." She mumbles the words, eyelids already heavy with the promise of slumber.

It's easy for Bellamy to slip the crutches from beneath her arms and gently coax her to the edge of his cot. "You need to get some rest. Besides, I have work to do, and Attie is with Harper and the other children for the moment. Sleep while you can, Clarke."

His words fall on deaf ears. She's already snoring softly as he tucks a thin pillow beneath her head. He can't stop himself from sweeping golden strands away from her face. He recalls a fairy tale his mother used to recite to Octavia late at night. A story about a cursed princess who falls into a deep slumber, only to be awakened by the kiss of a brave prince. One corner of his mouth twitches up in amusement. Clarke could probably sleep through an earthquake at this point, let alone a stolen kiss.


	8. Chapter 8

Clarke is tired and more than a little fed up by the time she hobbles into her quarters. The brace that Raven made her does its job, but it rubs and pinches and, by the end of the day, her back is sore from lugging it around. All she wants is a hot bath and a good, solid ten hours of sleep. She knows neither are likely to be had.

The committee meeting with her mother went surprisingly well. Blueprints for a community layout and Raven's demonstration of the new electrical setup had kept Kane's mouth shut. Abby listened quietly, the blank expression on her face only readable to those close to her. She was impressed and more than a little proud. Clarke could see it in her mother's eyes, the barely noticeable twitches at the corners of her mouth. A little tremble of unadulterated love, something Clarke hadn't felt in so long, shivered through her limbs and made her throat tight as she waited expectantly for Abby's response. She will never admit it out loud, but making her mother proud is something she still strives for.

As she passes through the last archway leading to Bellamy's quarters, there's a moment of unease. She's fallen into a routine with Bellamy, taking turns getting up when Attie cries out in the night, doing household chores in concert most evenings. They're playing house. Clarke shies away from the thought and the discomfort it brings.

Not that playing house is even something to aspire to anymore. She can only recall such pictures of domesticity coming from the thumb-worn novels that somehow ended up on the Ark. There were no houses to live in, no kitchens to clean, no linens to wash. She can't imagine her mother and father ever having stood shoulder to shoulder in front of a steaming vat of dirty laundry, laughing as they dragged the sopping mess against the bumpy washboard. Everyone on the Ark had their duties: cooks in the kitchen, launderers in Bay Two, scientists in Engineering, caretakers in the nursery, doctors in Sickbay. It was a very fine way of communal living, but now she wonders if something was lost doing things that way… something intimate.

She feels a bond of shared life with Bellamy, but it scares her a little that he's the first thing she looks for when she walks through the doorway into their compartment. Every day they spend together strengthens this attachment she has and it terrifies her She doesn't like the sinking feeling of disappointment in the pit of her stomach when he's away. She's not prepared to admit that she misses him when he's gone, and so she tells herself she doesn't, and works to push away the need she feels.

When she walks through the door there is no Bellamy tonight, no Attie, and she can't help but be a little bit relieved, even as her eyes scan for remnants of their presence. There's a only a little flutter of an ache in her chest, and she quickly tamps it down.

His bed is made neatly, the threadbare throw folded and sitting on top of the single, flattened pillow. The faded blue sling he wears over his shoulder to haul the little girl around is gone. She resists the urge to cross over to his side, to run her fingers along the soft seams of the lumpy mattress. It's not hard to turn back to her own space, at least not very; she's exhausted after all. The muscles in her lower back scream in protest as she plops down onto the cot he procured for her. It's soft with padding - something she interrogated Bellamy about to no end. He merely shrugged, denying any possibility that he'd spent precious time scavenging for something soft to lay her battered body on, that maybe he'd ventured up into the mountain one last time.

They hadn't announced they were living together. Abby had merely raised an eyebrow in surprise when Clarke let it slip. Any other funny looks or comments were swiftly squelched by an angry glare from either her or Bellamy. For the most part, people haven't wished to deal with an angry Bellamy, even less an angry Clarke.

There's a loud clatter as the brace falls to the floor, buckles releasing for the first time in many hours. Clarke bends her knee as far as it will go, trying out the motions her mother suggested for physical therapy. She gasps at the twinge of pain, and eases up. It's slow-going and more than a little uncomfortable, but she's determined to be rid of the metal contraption as soon as possible.

When she closes her eyes, she expects to fall asleep quickly. Rain pattering on the Ark makes a dull roar that should rock her to sleep, the sound pulling at her limbs like gravity as she falls. Sometimes she misses the hum of life when they were still floating above the Earth. The ventilation system's huge fans constantly turning, the creaking was like a lullaby to her, a constant reminder that people were working to keep each other alive. She's so often surrounded by disquieting silence that she begins to wonder if she's even alive. The rain helps, but so often all she has is the deep, even breathing of Bellamy as he lies across from her; or sometimes, the softly fluttering warmth of Attie against her chest as the little girl dreams. Clarke can't imagine what babies dream about, her own nocturnal visions full of twisted features and ear-piercing screams.

It's warm under her knit blanket. The compartment is dark but not too dark, the greenish glow of the lights running along the hallway peeking into the room. The longer she lays there, the more apparent it becomes that her ears are pricked for familiar sounds: the soft clank of leather boots against the metal grating in the hall, the gentle cooing of a small child as a deep voice whispers her quiet. She's waiting up for him, and it annoys her beyond belief.

She flips over onto her good side, tucking a makeshift pillow between her legs to support her bad knee, more determined than ever to fall asleep before Bellamy gets back. Her mother used to tell her to count sheep, as strange as that sounds. The only sheep she'd ever seen back then were in the science classes she took as a child, stupid looking creatures staring blankly from the monitor. She remembers trying valiantly to recreate the softness of their fluffy fleece with her small piece of graphite, frowning at the results.

On the ground she's seen small groups of less nomadic grounders tending to the animals as she crosses the woods into giant clearings. The shepherds down here take their flocks to the sweeping expanses of waving grass in the little valleys between ridges. They stand stock-still watching their livestock graze leisurely. Bellamy thinks that Camp Jaha should barter for a few of the animals and start a flock of their own. It seems like a good idea, but the shepherds merely stare at them in stony silence when any of the citizens of the Ark approach them. The unsteady truce is holding, but none of the grounders seem overjoyed with their presence.

And that is the biggest problem for Clarke's plan to stay out in the open. She needs to form bonds with the neighboring villages, partnerships that are mutually beneficial, but they won't talk to her, or any of her people. Abby's intent is self-preservation, but Clarke worries that moving into the mountain will create an insurmountable divide between the two peoples. There has to be a way to bridge the gulf.

Counting sheep does seem to work, in a roundabout way. Clarke's mind fills with a dozen or so distractions as she drifts into slumber, a blessed fogginess enveloping her.

* * *

A shooting pain rips through the muscle along Clarke's thigh, sharp and unrelenting as it flickers up the valley of her spine. The spasm rockets her out of her blessedly dreamless sleep, a sheen of sweat collecting along her brow as she pants. The room is still dark, the soft swishing of rain still echoing on the metal.

She doesn't have time to collect herself before she hears it, the sound she'd been silently wishing for as she fell asleep. There's the familiar clank of Bellamy's boots against the grating, but he's not murmuring to Attie, and the child's not cooing at him. Instead, he's chuckling softly, and each time he pauses, a bright giggle echoes in the hall. Attie's like a mockingbird, repeating the happy sounds she hears, and Bellamy no doubt is amused by this. It turns into this joyful cycle of tinkling laughter, and the tension flows out of Clarke as she listens.

Then the sound of his progress stops, and she can hear him take a deep breath, stilling the infectious laughter in his chest. He replaces the sound with a melodic shushing. Clarke can see in her mind's eye the way he's patting the little girl on the back, rocking on his heels as he tries to lull her into tranquility. It's a sight she's been graced with many times in the past couple weeks. He's so natural with the child. It takes Clarke by surprise sometimes, a fuzzy warmth softening the sharp looks she likes to give him.

There's this deep ache when she looks at him in those moments. It's a thousand little things all swirling together at once to create this wave of helpless longing that crashes over her. He's happy, genuinely happy, and for a moment, no matter how brief, he's carefree. It's a side to him she hadn't known existed before the child came into their lives.

She closes her eyes, unprepared to see him with this tightness settling in her chest. She intends to feign sleep until he beds down, but the pain in her leg and back is unrelenting, and a grunt of pain escapes her in spite of everything. She hopes her discomfort goes unnoticed, and keeps her breathing shallow to aid in this endeavor. Bellamy goes about his nightly rituals with Attie as usual, humming softly as he feeds her the nightly bottle of milk.

Clarke's breathing becomes labored as she struggles to remain still, hopeful that he won't notice the tic of her jaw as she clenches her teeth together. The pain is getting worse, and she doesn't know if she can ride out the wave of spasms on her own. It's all for naught though, Bellamy softly stepping over to her as soon as Attie is sleeping peacefully.

Dropping down on bent knee, he whispers, "Where does it hurt?"

Clarke exhales the breath caught in her chest, and slowly opens her eyes. "I'm fine."

Then he does something she doesn't expect, his warm palm lighting softly on her hip. "Here?"

She shakes her head, sighing. "My hamstring… and my back. It's just.. strained."

He slides his hand down the back of her thigh, squeezing gently as he goes along. He gets all the way to the bend of her knee before journey back up to her hip. "Yeah, the muscle's all knotted up. Turn over."

She shifts on the cot, obeying his command before she can think better of it. Lying on her stomach, she hides her face in the crook of her arm. This time he's using both hands, and she bites her tongue when her traitor brain suggests that this would be more effective without trousers on.

He's firm yet gentle, working his way from her upper calf up to the small of her back, going over the trouble spot repeatedly until he starts to feel it loosen up. Clarke hears the little moan of relief before she realizes it's coming out of her own mouth.

Bellamy's hands still, and Clarke can feel the blood rushing to her face in embarrassment. He clears his throat, asking unsteadily. "Do you, uh, want me to stop?"

She shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak. Thankfully, Bellamy takes it as an invitation to continue, slipping his hands up past the waist of her trousers under her loose shirt, pressing his thumbs gently into the muscles along her spine. There are little calluses on his fingertips and along his palm, and it tickles her sensitive skin, the pressure eliciting grateful sighs.

"You need to take it easy."

He withdraws, brushing her hair away from her face as he waits for a response, but she's sound asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Clarke is holding Attie against her chest, patting persistently on her back, but nothing is happening. She's waiting for a burp, the little bubble of air that she knows will make the child incredibly fussy if it isn't dispensed with now.

She shifts the baby to her other shoulder. Attie seems content to laze against Clarke for eternity, making gurgling noises as Clarke's arm gets tired. Maybe the child doesn't need to burp, maybe just this once she paced herself while devouring the goat milk Abby had provided for her. Clarke snorts. Yeah sure, this ravenous little beast doesn't know how to take it easy when it comes to food.

"What's so funny?"

She can hear the smile in Bellamy's voice and knows she'll find him staring at her, the net he's working on draped across his knees. He's been focusing intently on the fine work for the past half-hour, barely uttering a word since he'd come in for the afternoon. Repairing the holes in the net is a tedious task that she doesn't envy.

"Just thinking about how this little bear could probably eat our entire winter stockpile if she put her mind to it."

Bellamy merely grunts in agreement, giving Clarke a quick glance through his eyelashes as he returns to making tiny little knots. "They only eat more as time goes on."

"How did..." She trails off, not sure if it's a subject he wants to tackle, but her curiosity gets the better of her. "How did you feed Octavia… all that time?"

The food on the Ark was strictly rationed; everything that came out of the hydroponic greenhouses was logged and carefully monitored, each family getting a specific ration each day. Her mother had explained to her the science of it, calculating the caloric intake needed for each person to function and thrive.

He doesn't look up at her, busy twisting the fibers between his index finger and thumb. He barely moves his lips when he speaks. "Mother gave O half of her rations in the beginning, and then so did I." He cleared his throat of the creeping thickness that afflicted his vocal cords. "And the times when it wasn't enough… I gave her all of my rations."

"But how…"

"There were things that even the most hungry Ark dwellers didn't eat. They went into the compost to be made into plant food. It wasn't guarded very well."

There are tears gathering behind Clarke's eyes, and she feels like she's splaying Bellamy open, poking and prodding at his soft insides. Shame and pride and embarrassment roil inside of him as he avoids looking at her. "You would have been floated if you'd been caught," she whispers.

"Getting floated seemed inevitable, one way or another..."

The gravity of the statement hits Clarke like a ton of bricks. It really had been inevitable. Bellamy's mother had paid the ultimate price for Octavia's existence. She wants nothing more than to slip over and sit down beside him, to thread her arms through his and just hold him tight. Instead, she blinks away the moisture and refocuses her attention back on the little girl. She's just getting to know the little bundle of fluttering life, and even now she can imagine how hard it must have been to take on the responsibility of his sister. "People do risky things for the ones they love."

He nods, the fringe falling down into his eyes. "I wanted to take her place. But she said..." His jaw clenches as he struggles with a particularly slippery set of fibers. "... If she lost O and me too she wouldn't have had anything left to live for."

It's an obscure loophole in ark law, one that Clarke only vaguely remembers her parents talking about in hushed tones. The fine print in the last subsection on capital punishment. Someone could theoretically take the place of a doomed citizen, the only catch that it had to be an immediate family member past the age of majority. No one ever exercised this option. Many volunteered, yes, but the convicted parties never accepted. She ached when she thought of Bellamy earnestly offering up his life to save his mother. Throat tight with emotion, she tears her gaze away from him.

Resting the child in the valley of her thighs, she smiles sadly when Attie makes a mad grab for her swinging blonde hair. Clarke surrenders her index fingers as a consolation prize. Attie's skin is so delicate against her own, twelve soft tiny digits holding on for dear life. She thinks she understands Bellamy's mother better than she ever thought possible. The instinct to protect is too strong. She still gets boiling mad when she thinks of how she found the child. How can any creature this... _exposed_ survive in the wild?

"How many of them does this happen to?" she asks, looking at Bellamy. Her eyes are flinty with anger. He thinks he knows exactly what she's talking about.

"Clarke..."

"No, really. Is the forest full of tiny corpses? There has to be something we can do." She's trembling with the injustice of it all, chin jutted out defiantly.

"Clarke, it's not-"

"Look at her, Bell. She's never done anything wrong, and if I hadn't stumbled upon her she'd be dead. How many more are out there?" The anger in Clarke's voice alarms the baby, face crumpling as she pooches out her bottom lip. It's the pre-cry face that Clarke's become so familiar with. Scooping up the little girl, she gently rocks her.

"Clarke. I go out hunting every single day, and I've never stumbled upon an abandoned child."

"We should send out search parties." Attie's starting to cry now, soft, little hiccuping cries that are probably a three on a scale of ten. This little being's happiness is quickly becoming something Clarke has no control over, and she shifts the child once again, peering into her scrunched face, looking for an answer there.

"Clarke, we don't have the manpower for something like that." Bellamy is methodically rolling up his net, the little muscle at his temple working overtime as he clenches his jaw.

"But it's-"

"You can't save everyone." He snaps at her, and her mouth falls open in response. Attie's cries become more persistent as the tension fills the air.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm not saying I would do it, but don't you think they know what's best for their people?"

"Are you crazy? Look at her! They don't know anything." She gestures to the child in her arms, red-faced and crying helplessly.

"Sure, this time it was the wrong decision, but what happens if there's a baby with heart defects, or anencephaly? What if you find a child that's incapable of eating or digestion?" He shakes his head in frustration. He's been talking to Abby about radiation related genetic mutations, continually worried that something new might crop up with Attie. In spite of the doctor's reassurances, he can't dislodge the ever present sliver of worry. It's something he recognizes, having lived with it nestled next to his heart on the ark. "We don't live in a world with hospitals and doctors. There are no vaccines or antibiotics to protect the extra-vulnerable children you find. The Grounders aren't going to thank you for your trouble."

"They deserve a chance!" Clarke's volume raises more than she intended, and Attie matches her cry for cry until she can barely hear herself think.

"So you go out and find these children, and you can't save them, or maybe you can, then what? The grounders won't be happy about you taking their children. This is their way of life, Clarke. You go messing with that and we won't have any choice but to hole up in the mountain. And for what? Does this make the guilt go away, or do you have to find something else?"

"What?"

"You know what this is really about." His nostrils are flaring, blowing out an angry breath before he cards his hands through his hair. It's gotten so long.

Clarke is taken out of the moment, the sails of her anger falling unexpectedly slack. She's on the defense now. She pats Attie gently on the back as she searches for an answer to his accusation. "It's not-"

"It is. I hear you crying at night; I hear their names fall from your lips as you dream. I see the guilt etched all over your face when you glance toward the mountains." That guilt he's talking about - it's mirrored in his features right now, pain flickering in his eyes as he implores her to admit it.

"It's not _that_."

He merely stares at her, lips pressed together tightly as if he's holding something back. His head drops down, studying the tips of his boots, but she can see the freckles on the bridge of his nose disappearing in an angry flush, the set of his shoulders is tense.

"Bellamy, I'm just... at loose ends. No one needs me here anymore. Raven and Wick have the logistics under control; everyone else looks to you for guidance. I was gone for so long-"

"Who's fault is that?" He still doesn't look up at her, but the venom finds its target nonetheless.

"I don't have a place. I need something... a purpose."

Attie's cries reach a ear-piercing crescendo, and Bellamy snaps his head up. In two quick steps he's hovering over them, big hands withdrawing Attie from Clarke's embrace. "She needs to be burped." His words are clipped as he firmly thumps the child's back. "You're too tentative. She's a child, not a glass figurine."

As if to prove his point, his sentence is punctuated with a gassy, little burp, and the crying subsides. He shifts Attie into the cradle of his arms, rocking her gently as he sways. "Clarke... if you need something, go _find_ something. Just try not to start another war in the process."

She can tell he's angry about her refusal to admit the truth, but it does nothing to change her mind. She _will_ find something to do, something that will neutralize the acid of guilt eating a hole in her stomach. She doesn't have any other choice.

 **A/N: comments and reviews are worth their weight in gold. I appreciate anyone reading. :D**


	10. Chapter 10

In spite of Bellamy's firmly-made suggestion, Clarke still feels detached from everything around her. The people she passes nod and smile at her, but they don't engage. It's as though she's a character in a story they've heard and not a real person.

The few people she was close to in the beginning are either too busy for her, or they look at her like she's Death Incarnate. Jasper, in particular, stares at her coldly, eyes trailing after her unrelentingly. His gaze feels like a thousand-pound stone pressing down on her chest, slowly pushing the air out of her lungs. It doesn't take long for her to avoid anywhere he might be. It's how she finds herself hovering around Murphy's smith shop, the beginnings of an idea percolating in her brain. There's no love lost between them, and she's okay with that. It's hard to burn a bridge that never existed to begin with. It seems like a good place to start.

He makes weapons for their guards and hunters, fashioning arrows from the material he's scavenged, pounding out the red-hot metal until it's just the shape he wants. It's taxing, lonesome work, and she wonders just how much of his isolation is self-imposed. She understands the impulse.

She watches him for a long time before he takes notice. The roar of his fire and the pounding clanks of his hammer against the anvil muffle her steps.

The work he does here is punishing, sweat dripping down the side of his face as he strikes the hot metal. Each impact sends a quaking reverberation through his limbs, threatening to rend the muscles from his very bones. Clarke can't help but wince in time with the thumps.

He turns, showing no sign of surprise when he sees her, the hot metal going into a vat of cool water with a steaming hiss. Tossing his gloves and leather apron aside, he approaches her cautiously. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

If the tone of his voice is any indication, pleasure is clearly not what he's feeling. Suspicion and dislike radiate from his stance as he awaits her answer. It's fine, really; she's not looking for conversation or friendship. "I need information."

"About...?"

"The Dead Zone."

He stiffens, turning back to his work station. "Miles and miles of dirt and landmines."

"And people."

"Thinking of running away again?"

She bristles, tamping down the urge to snap at him. "No."

He shrugs, not bothering to look at her as he rifles through his scrap metal. "Nothing out there but a bunch of rejects anyway. Maybe you should be thinking about it."

She shakes her head. "No, listen. This is important. The people out there - do they suffer? Do they starve? Are the mutations survivable?"

His eyes flash when they cut back to her, narrowing as they take in her serious. "If they were really bad mutations, they wouldn't be out there. The children would be dead, and the parents wouldn't be exiled."

"Do they suffer?"

"What do you think? There's no shelter from the blazing sun. There's no food, and their people won't acknowledge their existence. I don't understand why they don't just toss the brats in the woods like everyone else and move on with their lives."

His harsh words are belied by his sudden stillness. He stares down at his hands, shoulders dropping. Quietly, he asks, "Why do you care?"

"There's strength in numbers, Murphy, and intelligence, too. Think of all the things they know that the other Grounders have kept from us. Hunting and farming techniques, natural medicines, cultural customs we're ignorant of." She fights the urge to growl in frustration. "I'm sick of finding things out on a need-to-know basis. This planet once had seven billion people on it. Those people out there... can only be a fraction of the survivors. We need to know what we're dealing with."

He shook his head. "No, you can't bring them 'into the fold.'" His voice is thick with disgust, an irritated mimicry of her own cadence. "They won't like you anymore than the other grounders, and, if anything, they're more distrustful."

"Murphy, come on. You're the only person who can make this work. You have a relationship with some of the Exiles."

No one speaks of the time Murphy spent in the Dead Zone, or of the silent people who hauled him back to Camp Jaha, dehydrated and near death. He prefers it that way, living and working in his blacksmith shop, away from everyone.

"It's cut-throat out there. The mines are not a remnant of the wars. They're recent, and they're only the first line of defense in many cases."

"Defense from what?"

"Other Exiles, wild creatures, and the occasional sick bastard who hunts people with mutations for sport."

She blanches at the thought. He's being particularly harsh in an attempt to discourage her from a decidedly dangerous idea. She can see past the hard shell, stepping carefully around his own figurative array of landmines.

"Please," she begs.

It shouldn't work, her bald-faced plea, but Murphy sighs, bending the piece of tin in his hand in frustration before tossing it back into the scrap bin, resignation written all over his face. "What do I need to do?"

"Take me to the Exiles."

"Meet me at the gates before first light tomorrow morning. Don't bring anything."

* * *

Clarke is exhausted. She has spent the entire day bumping along on the back of Mabel, one of the camp's few horses, hanging on for dear life when Murphy would dig his heels into the mare's flanks and urge her into a gallop.

The first group of people they come across eye Murphy suspiciously, their wary eyes sliding over to her occasionally as they speak. She now understands why he insisted on not bringing anything with them. She'd argued hotly about bringing a full medical kit, but he merely crossed his arms and stared at her until she relented.

Now she suspects carrying any superfluous items could put their lives in danger. The man conversing with Murphy has a deadly looking blade at his waist, ready to pull it from the dirty-looking yellow sash knotted at his hip. The thing glints in the sun, winking at her as the man shifts.

Murphy is in front of her on the horse, back ramrod straight as he twitches the reins to calm their steed. He turns his head back to whisper a warning to her. "Ride like hell back to camp if things go south."

He slides off into the hot sand before she has time to answer, approaching the dangerous group cautiously.

"We're looking for Willow and Aaron... When's the last time you saw them?"

The man shrugs, leaning forward to spit in front of Murphy's feet in an unsubtle display of machismo. "What's it to you?"

"They're friends of mine." Murphy digs in his pocket, pulling out a little carved chess piece. The wood is blonde, it's grain curving gracefully along the polished surface of the little knight. "Tig made it for me."

The man nods, taking the piece from Murphy's hands. He runs his thumb over the ridges of the wooden horse's mane. "They're at the oasis."

Murphy nods, taking back the knight and tucking it carefully in his pocket. Without a word he remounts their horse and turns away from the surly group of Exiles.

He spurs the horse on, riding hard through the desert. Clarke clings to Murphy's waist for dear life, the muscles of her legs tensing painfully as she holds herself on the beast's back.

Murphy yells over the sound of whipping wind. "We have to hurry. No one stays at the oasis for long; it isn't safe."

It turns out the term 'oasis' is a bit of an exaggeration. There's a tiny clump of sickly-looking trees encircling what looks to be the mouth of an underground spring. The scene they ride up on is bleak. The slight form of a body wrapped in sheets lies on the back of a rickety looking cart. Two figures stand solemnly next to one another, a behemoth of a man cloaked in black next to a smaller white-clad mourner. Their eyes are raised to the blindingly clear sky, palms up in supplication.

It's so clearly a ritual of Last Rites that Clarke wants to tell Murphy to call the whole thing off - to let these people be - but he slowly trots right up to the two figures, quietly sliding off Mabel's back before helping her down.

He stands next to the larger man, mirroring the pose quietly. Clarke is a believer in science, and on the Ark there were very few people who had faith in anything other than the tangible world, but she feels a shiver go up her spine. This feels like a communion of sorts, with the Earth, with the sky, with something she cannot quite define.

The figure in black drops down on his knees, leaning forward to gently draw back the sheet, revealing hollow cheeks and finely drawn tattoos spiraling across the face of a woman. Clarke guesses she's probably a bit younger than her mother. He touches the woman's paper dry forehead, slowly drawing a little circle with the tip of his index finger before whispering, "Yu gonplei ste odon."

Your fight is over. She drags her gaze away from the funereal scene, feeling like an intruder. The phrase makes Clarke sick at heart. It's entirely too apt, and yet she wishes she would never have to hear it again. Life should be a joy, not a fight, but it's hard to imagine that it's ever been any other way.

She's staring off into the distance when a flutter of movement catches her eye. Murphy is dropping down on his knees as well, reaching forward to draw a tentative line down the side of the woman's face. He's shaking a little, grief flashing across his face briefly before the mask falls into place again. The woman's name comes out in a tired sigh, his throat hot and dry. "Willow."

The man beside him nods, rising to his feet on creaking knees. He hauls Murphy up with one hand, clapping a hand on his back in a kind of half hug. "John Murphy, what brings you back to this wasteland?"

The question is not a happy one, and it's accompanied by a stern look from the large man. For the first time since she has known Murphy, the guarded look on his face drops. "We're seeking absolution." He clears his throat, cutting a sheepish glance at Clarke. "And information."


	11. Chapter 11

Bellamy thinks that maybe he was a bit harsh with Clarke. She wandered around camp the rest of the day after their heated exchange, keeping to herself mostly, watching silently as the remaining members of the one hundred go about their day. Sitting quietly in the mess hall during dinner, she faintly smiled at Raven's sarcastic remarks as Attie napped in her lap. She was there, but not fully present. He could see the gears turning in her head as she sat quietly.

Clarke's cot is empty when he wakes this morning. A note left on his bedside table tells him that she's dropped Attie off at the med bay with her mother for a checkup. The missive ends without emotion, letting him know she's going out with a hunting party and will be back in three days.

When he goes to collect the child, Abby is reluctant to turn over the giggling little girl. Bellamy gets a flash of what Clarke's mother was like before. For a brief moment she's the woman who once laid a cold cloth on his forehead when he'd been hot with fever as a child, the woman who hummed softly as he hallucinated monsters, hands cool and soothing.

Abby smiles knowingly at him when he asks her if she can watch Attie for the day. There's too much to do here for him walk around with a wiggling baby strapped to his chest, and he thinks maybe it would do her good to spend more time with the child. Bellamy and Abby aren't exactly easy with one another, but the child's presence is a tenuous thread of connection. Attie washes away the awkwardness with her gurgles and squawks.

Two days pass slowly. He works himself harder than usual, scraping down big logs and digging post holes. His muscles ache, exhaustion dragging him down by the end of the day. His quarters are too quiet once Attie drifts off to sleep. He thinks he can hear his heart beating in the silence, the thump and whoosh of blood racing through his veins echoing in his ears. He's used to hearing Clarke faintly snoring on the other side of the room, the occasional whimper breaking the even pattern of her breathing.

Her threadbare blanket lies askew across her cot, dirty clothes haphazardly kicked underneath the thing. Out of sight, out of mind. Clarke has more important things to worry about than dirty laundry and making her bed. The thought makes him smile, and he crosses to her side, collecting the debris and tucking the corners of the blanket under the edge of her thin mattress.

Attie coos, the sound like an alarm in the silence. Bellamy stands beside her makeshift crib. She's asleep on her tummy, curled up into a little ball. He resists the urge to pick her up and hold her close. She's sleeping fine, cradling her close would be more for his benefit than hers. He settles reaching down and brushing his knuckles against the crown of her head.

The child is growing. It's amazing to him. Her copper curls getting longer, chubby cheeks round and smooth against the tip of his finger. Freckles are still speckled across the creamy skin. She likes it when he sings to her, and he finds comfort in the simple melodies. Withdrawing from her side, he gets ready for bed, humming to himself. His eyes close, and he wonders how Clarke is sleeping out in the open air.

* * *

Bellamy spends most of the third day hauling water and splitting firewood. The ache in his muscles is a pleasant distraction from the hollow feeling in his chest. Bellamy starts to worry when the sun begins to set. The fiery red glow bouncing off wisps of clouds sets his stomach to churning. Clarke still isn't back. A faint nausea creeps up when the possibility that she's left for good barges into his thoughts.

The mountain has been secured, and more than half of the people in camp Jaha are ready to set out tomorrow on the day long hike to their new home. Clarke thinks she doesn't have a place here, but Bellamy knows that things will fall apart if she leaves.

That should be his biggest concern, but it's not the future of camp Jaha that makes him restless. It's the idea that she'll take off and hurt herself again and he won't be there to bring her back. Even that fear pales in comparison to the thought that she'll leave and simply choose not to return.

These thoughts surprise him, fluttering so close to the surface as they are. It's like he's been waiting for this since he dragged her back the first time.

The dinner bell rings, and people begin to pack up whatever work they're doing, the beehive hum of life winding down for the day. He should go to the mess hall with everyone else, take advantage of the fact that Abby has Attie for the evening, and sit down and talk with his friends. It's been a long time.

But he can't drag himself away from the main gates, watching as tired yet happy people trickle back inside. He tenses when the hunting party slips through the entrance, bows strapped to their backs as they tiredly haul their game behind them. His heart flutters expectantly, pounding in his chest like he's just sprinted across a field. His eyes scan the crowd.

Each time he catches the golden tone of blonde hair, he twitches a little, nostrils flaring in irritation when it's not her.

Just as the night guard is about to haul the gates shut, he hears a distant yell. Coming from the same direction is the faint glow of a single torch. The flickering orange orb is advancing at a slow but steady pace. He squints trying to see who it is, but in the failing light the distance is just too much for his eyes.

Springing into action, he urges the guards to swing the gates shut in spite of the call. "Better safe than sorry, fellas."

Springing up the wooden ladder to peer over the wall, he carefully runs along the catwalk, hitting a series of switches that connect to the emergency floodlights. The field below them is illuminated. He makes a mental note to swing by and let Raven and Monty know how well their setup works.

When the mystery caravan approaches, he can see two horses, a ramshackle cart being dragged behind the larger one. The travelers are draped in light fabric, thin sheets of it tucked just so around their faces for protection from wind and sun. Bellamy immediately knows where they're coming from. He motions to the guards to raise their weapons, mouthing "safety on" silently.

When the newcomers are within earshot Bellamy lets out a firm command. "Show your faces and state your business!"

There are two people on the larger horse, one tucked right in front of the other. The smaller of the two reaches up and whips off her head wrap, and Bellamy's eyes finally light on the blonde hair he's been searching for.

"Clarke?" His voice cracks embarrassingly as he yells her name, unable to hide his relief.

"Bellamy? Is that you? Open the gates."

The guards stir into motion, and the gate begins to creak before Bellamy yells, "No, stop!"

They do stop, Jackson staring at him with a confused expression. "What's the holdup, Blake? It's Abby's daughter."

He lowers his voice so it doesn't carry. "It could be a trap. She could be a hostage. Who knows what or _who_ is in that cart they're pulling. You know, like a Trojan Horse." At their blank expressions he grunts in frustration. Was he the only one who took advantage of the thousands of books stored digitally on the ark? Jackson was probably too busy pouring over anatomy books. History and literature were, unsurprisingly, pretty low priority floating in space. Those with an inclination for these subjects were expected to pursue them in their free time. It was the only advantage to being as unimportant as he was up there.

When there's no response, he simply pushes them out of the way and re-secures the gates. "Trust me."

Clarke's voice is brittle and exasperated when she calls up again. "Bellamy?"

It's only now he sees that, in addition to Clarke's companion rider, there's a small figure perched on the other horse, and a rather large man walking along beside them. "Who's with you?"

Clarke opens her mouth to respond but before she can say anything, the man behind her whips off his head wrap and yells, "Damn it, Bellamy. Get off your power-trip and let us in. I can barely feel my ass!"

Bellamy grinds his teeth at the sight of John Murphy. "Who else?"

Murphy mutters something, and it earns him a sharp elbow in the ribs from Clarke. Swinging one leg over, he slides off the horse, dust settling around his feet as he walks over to the two strangers. Bellamy watches the exchange, straining to hear what's being said.

Murphy's voice does not carry to Bellamy's perch, but he can see the hand gestures being made. Murphy points to the guard's crow's nest and then at Bellamy's position on the wall. The tall hooded man shakes his head in refusal, and Murphy's hand gestures get a little more vehement.

In the midst of this discussion, the solitary rider spurs his nimble little beast forward, trotting to the foot of the gate before stopping and lowering his hood.

Bellamy can see that it's a boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, staring defiantly up at him. The short newcomer squints blindly at the glaring lights, unable to discern the silhouettes behind them. "My name is Tig, your people sought us out and convinced my father to come here. Now you deny us entry?"

The boy isn't yelling, but he projects his voice so that it carries confidently over the gate. A telling lisp on all the sibilants is the only effect of what looks to be a severely cleft palate.

Whatever twinge of sympathy Bellamy feels is tempered by a wave of irritation. Clearly Clarke ignored his arguments against getting mixed up with the grounders' less savory customs. He sets his jaw and yells out one last inquiry. "And what's in the cart?"

The boy's taciturn father pulls a stained canvas from the little cart, revealing the sparse accoutrements of a nomadic life, and not, as Bellamy had half expected, hidden marauders. The tension winding around his frame begins to unravel and he gives the signal to open the gates.

 **A/N: still really enjoying writing this story. The feedback I've gotten is extremely encouraging, and really makes my day. Thank you so much.**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: I just realized this was in my drafts and had been for a while. I finally got around to finishing it. (I've had a particularly awful past few days and working on this made me feel a little better. Please feel free to leave any comments you like. I really appreciate them.)**

Bellamy descends from his perch as quickly as possible, taking the rungs of the ladder two at a time. His feet hit the ground just as the last horse saunters through the gates. He's not in a good position for negotiating should things get tense. He cranes his neck looking up at Clarke and Murphy.

His first instinct is to angrily stomp up to the horse and drag Murphy out of the saddle, demanding an explanation, but the steady and silent gaze of the tall dark stranger dampens Bellamy's rash urges. Perhaps it's best if they present a united front to the newcomers.

He spreads his feet apart to take a solid wide stance, crossing his arms over his chest. The confident facade is easy to maintain. It's something he's been doing his whole life. "Clarke. I see you carried out the plan we discussed. Any trouble along the way?"

He's purposely vague, because he honestly doesn't have a clue what is going on, and he cannot help the irritation that seeps into his words. He hopes it merely comes across as hard and implacable, and not as a sign of weakness.

Catching on quickly, she nods. "Aaron and Tig need some medical attention. Could you get someone to take them to the med bay?"

He beckons one of the guards and sends him to fetch Abby from the mess hall, whispering to the man quickly, "Tell her not to act surprised."

Bellamy stands silently as they wait, eyes burning twin holes into Clarke as he stares at her. He can feel the intensity of his gaze, anger and fear and relief all crashing together in his chest like asteroids.

When Abby arrives she's wearing the same blank expression as Bellamy, wordlessly ushering the newcomers back to the ark. He's surprised by the kinship he feels in that moment. How often had he seen that stern expression on her face? Until now he'd thought it meant she didn't care about anyone other than her daughter, that she had some kind of invincible armor against this world. To see that she is human scares him a little.

His eyes follow the departing group, purposely ignoring Clarke and Murphy's presence. He can feel Clarke, just on the periphery of his senses. He needs a moment to himself before addressing the pair. If he's not careful, he might let the mask slip, relief at her appearance pouring out of him in a flood. It's not until Abby and the two exiles are out of sight that he turns to confront Murphy and Clarke.

Murphy slides down to the ground with a thump, taking the reins to lead the horse back to the fenced-in paddock with Clarke still astride it. Bellamy doesn't move out of the way, standing like a statue in front of the two. He extends a hand, silently asking for the reins.

The exchange is tense, Murphy glaring up at Bellamy before grunting in disgust and dropping the reins to the ground. "Whatever man. I have better things to do than look after your highness," he says.

Clarke is silent, watching Murphy angrily stomp away. There are circles under her eyes, exhaustion pulling her shoulders down in a conspicuous slump.

The dirt is cool against Bellamy's fingers as he reaches down to pick up the lead, dusting it off against his pants, before guiding the mare back to a clearing to the left of the ark. The grass in the expanse is springy under his feet. The horse whickers happily when it recognizes its home, feed bucket hanging on a post.

Bellamy wordlessly hitches the animal to the splintery log fence, lips pursed as he turns away to collect his things.

Clarke, with more than a little effort, hauls one leg up over the horse's flank. She slides down to the soft grass, leaning heavily on the fence before Bellamy turns around. He doesn't see the way her knees buckle, propping herself up at the last minute.

He has a curry brush in one hand and feed in the other when he faces Clarke again. He hands her the bucket, standing at arm's length as he waits for her fingers to wrap around the handle. She complies, scratching the horse between the eyes before letting it stick its nose down into the dried oats.

Bellamy works methodically, smooth circular motions removing loose hair and debris from the roan coat. Clarke finds it soothing. His strong hands flex against the implement's handle, muscles in his shoulders bunching in a regular rhythm as he goes along. He tosses aside the tool and picks up a softer bristled brush without looking at Clarke. "So... You want to tell me what you hope to accomplish bringing grounder exiles into our camp?" He catches himself, the tone of his voice harsher than he intends. He adjusts. "I'm open to this, princess, but I really need to know what the hell is going on."

Clarke can hear the hurt in his voice, cloaked as it is in low tones. She regrets not talking to him, but her father used to repeat an old earth saying to her when he did particularly rash things. _It's better to apologize than ask permission._ Incredibly flawed logic in a society that puts people to death for the smallest infractions, but then again, that's not their society anymore.

"I'm sorry for keeping you out of the loop." She sighs, resting her forehead against the horse's cheek. She can hear the soft crunches as the mare chews at her feed, it's strangely soothing. "I found out something disturbing today."

Bellamy looks up surprised, only seeing the top of her head next to the horse's ears. "Disturbing?"

She nods, not looking up. "The grounders don't abandon children with mutations in the forest... not usually anyway. They-" She stops, an unpleasant taste in her mouth. "They brew a tea of oleander leaves and feed it to them."

He looks at her quizzically, waiting for her to elaborate. "It's poison, Bell. The grounders who leave their children in the woods are the ones who can't stomach the ritual. They're shunned for not taking full responsibility. It's one step removed from exile." She swallows, trying hard to continue speaking. Bellamy watches the crystalline teardrops pool in her eyes. "You haven't found any children in the woods because there aren't any."

He pretends not to notice her fragile emotional state, not because he doesn't want to comfort her, but because he senses that she's struggling for control, and a consoling pat on the back would shatter her. He continues to sweep the soft bristles brush over the horse, making his way down the placid animal's forelegs.

They stand in silence, focusing all their attention on the task at hand. In a matter of minutes, Bellamy is done with the task, giving the mare a solid pat on her rump. She trots off happily, joining the few other animals milling around in the paddock.

Clarke is leaning against the fence now, faraway look in her eyes. Bellamy wonders if this is what ghosts look like, pale and tired and all out of hope.

"Is this what we have to look forward to?" Her voice is wobbly, eyes drooping as everything begins to catch up with her.

She's on the verge, of what Bellamy's not sure. Hysteria rides along the edges of her voice, eyes wild. He doesn't know if she's going to start crying or screaming or laughing like a maniac. Holding onto the fence for dear life, knuckles white with the force of her grip, she asks, "When will we lose our humanity too? Has it already happened?"

He knows it hasn't. The faces of the lost are still imprinted on his memory. The regret he feels is all too human, wounds as fresh now as they day they were inflicted. "Clarke... is it any worse down here than it was up there? We killed people for stealing scraps of bread to give to their hungry children, for desperately trying to get medicine for their sick parents, for being clarions of truth..."

She blinks, the glassy expression disappearing for a moment. She just looks tired now, exhausted down to her very bones. Her eyes drift shut, her grip on the fence loosening. "I know... I know...But..." She trails off, swallowing hard. "It wasn't us doing it. It wasn't _us_ , Bell."

Before he can respond, she pitches forward, legs crumpling beneath her. Bellamy's at her side in a breath, catching her before she falls in a heap to the ground. Grunting he swings her legs up, carrying her like a small child. "Are you hurt?"

She shakes her head in denial, curling her fingers around his bicep. "Just tired."

He can feel her drifting, the muscles in her small frame going lax as her head lolls against his shoulder. Holding her closer, he carries her back to their quarters.


	13. Chapter 13

Clarke doesn't remember the last time she felt like this, like she can stop worrying for a second, let go of the anxiety tethered inside of her brain. Bellamy's holding her tight, strides wide and even, marching back to the ark. The swaying is almost like being rocked, and all of the exhaustion just tumbles in on top of her all at once.

Falling is slow at first, gaining momentum as she lets go. Out of habit she can't help but cling to consciousness as long as possible. Her sense of sound is always the last thing to succumb, ears registering sound vibrations long after she's ceased to be connected with her sleeping body. She can hear Bellamy's voice rumbling low in his chest as they pause at the entrance to the ark. He's asking one of the night watchmen to go to the med bay and check on their visitors and her mother.

Then the swaying starts again, this time punctuated by heavy combat boots thunking against metal grating. It's such a distinct sound, and she knows exactly where they are, his steps coming to a halt at the doorway to their compartment.

She fights to open her eyes, succeeding only in whimpering against him as he crosses the threshold. She doesn't want him to put her down, to feel the vulnerability of defenseless again. All the armor and fighting skills in the world can't protect her when she's unconscious. It's something she's been struggling with since they plummeted to the earth, the constant need to be on guard. Sleeping with one eye open is a clever in theory, but an actual impossibility only resulting in dark circles under her eyes and a grouchiness that even she feels bad for inflicting on people.

Drifting again, she's barely able to register the feeling when he tugs off her heavy boots, or the way he gently slips her arms out of the heavy riding jacket still wrapped around her. By the time the furs settle over her, she's already gone, slipping into Morpheus' embrace with barely a sigh.

...

It's still when Clarke opens her eyes. The sound of Bellamy snoring softly is the only thing that eases into the thick quiet. The fact that she's in a cocoon made of warm muscular arms is something of a surprise. It sends a shiver up her spine, and she fights the urge to snuggle into his embrace, fearful that the movement will wake him and the moment will be lost.i

She shouldn't worry. When he shifts in his sleep, it's only to pull her closer, this time draping one leg across hers and sighing against the top of her head. She wishes like hell the weight of his limbs didn't put uncomfortable pressure on her injury, that she could close her eyes and drift again.

She grunts at him, wiggling to get back into a good position. It doesn't work, they're all arms and legs and twisted blankets.

Feeling overheated from her efforts, she gives up, and pulls back to whisper in his ear. "Bell."

It's too quiet. She doesn't know if Attie is with them, afraid of waking the possibly sleeping child, but the discomfort in her leg is morphing into pain. The palm of one hand presses against his chest, threadbare cotton warm under her fingertips. His heart thuds a slow and calm rhythm. She tries again, this time a little bit louder. "Bellamy…"

The heartbeat against her hand picks up pace, tattooing like the fluttering wings of a humming bird. His eyes fly open, and she can feel the arms around her tense, ready for a fight.

"Clarke?" He blinks slowly, figuring out where they are and when. His thundering heartbeat slows when he looks down at her.

"How did this happen?"

It takes a few seconds for him to answer, sleep still fogging his brain. Finally he sighs. "You were talking in your sleep… It didn't sound pleasant. I tried to wake you up, and you reached for me…" He smirks and continues. "I always knew you wanted me in your bed."

Clarke vaguely recalls dark shadows running along the edges of her consciousness, an echo of panic bubbling in her chest. She shudders. Another bad dream of course.

"Can you, um…" She angles her head downward, glancing with a pained expression at his leg draped over her.

He's quick to respond, disentangling himself from her. "Oh shit, I'm sorry."

She sighs in relief at the absence of pressure on her healing leg. The feeling is short lived, disappointment sweeping across her as he scrambles completely off the cot. An unreadable look flashes across his face before a mask slips back down.

She could let him go. Silence would envelop them again, and he would slip back into his own cot. They would probably never talk about it again, and that would be okay, in its own way. But it's not what she really wants.

Sitting up, she watches him rearrange his belongings, back to her. He's usually meticulous about his side of the compartment. Everything has a place, and he likes it that way, but tonight his things are scattered across the cot and in the floor. He was worried the few days she was gone, she can tell. She wonders if this is how he was when she ran away the first time.

Her eyes flick over to Attie's little bed, brow furrowing as she sees that it's empty. "Attie?"

"Abbey was already looking after her today, and you looked so… I left her with your mother for the night. She seemed happy about it."

This is something of a surprise to Clarke. Abbey had let her know how much she disapproved of Clarke taking on the responsibility of the child. But her mother had managed to reign in the disapproval, limiting it to heavy sighs and occasionally pursed lips.

She's too caught up in thinking about her mother to notice the stiff way Bellamy is going through the motions of getting ready for bed. She snaps out of it when he knocks a whetstone off his table. A soft curse escapes his lips as he bends over to pick it up.

"Are you okay?"

He stills, glancing at her over his shoulder. "I'm fine, just a little sore."

It's a gruff response, but he's more annoyed with himself than anything. He shouldn't have kept chopping wood after the first twinges of pain just below his ribs, but he had needed something to distract him, and taking his frustrations out by slamming the axe into the waiting hunks of wood had seemed cathartic at the time. Now it just seems stupid.

Clarke's interest is piqued, the doctorly concern written on her face as she sits completely upright, throwing back the furs. "Let me see."

"What? No, don't be silly."

"Bellamy, get over here and let me see if you've done some real damage." The command is firm, and he responds to it without thinking. He was once a guard, nothing but a cog in a well oiled machine. Instinctivelg he follows her order, thinking only to balk at it after he's crossed the space between them. It feels good to let go of control for a moment.

"Take off your shirt and turn around."

Again with the orders. He obeys, wincing as he drags the thin cotton up over his head. There's definitely a strained muscle in his back, something he's dealt with before, no big deal. Getting examined is pointless, but he doesn't say anything, standing in front of her like an offering.

Her touch is pleasantly cool, fingers probing along the muscles of his back. She's not exactly gentle, the clinical examination looking for those troublesome points of pain. He hisses when she presses down too hard in a tender spot. "What's the diagnosis, ?"

She wrinkles her nose. Dr. Griffin is her mother, not her. For a brief shining moment when they'd stepped off the escape pod she'd wondered what it would be like not to have all this responsibility, to live in a paradise where she didn't have to set broken bones and battle fevers. "Clearly someone overdid it today."

"Remind me not to carry you around anymore." He smirks, braced for the feel of her jabbing a finger into his sore back. She doesn't disappoint. "Ow! Be nice, I'm in pain."

"Lay down." She pats the cot, scooting over to its edge so there's room.

"You're awfully bossy tonight." He's already climbing up beside her. He rests his chin on his forearm, giving in to the gentle pressure she's applying with her hands. It's not like her exam, the heel of one palm sliding down the ridge of his spine as she starts her therapy.

"How is that different than any other night?"

He lets out an involuntary sigh, eyes drifting shut as she works heat into his back, a pleasant tingle flitting along his nerve endings. "It's not."

He's tired, and this is pleasant, too pleasant to keep up the verbal sparring. She works in silence drifting across his skin. Instinctively she lingers on his lower back. That's where most back pain settles.

"Why did you kiss me that night?"

He's nearly asleep, but her abrupt question yanks him awake. "What are you talking about?"

She blinks. Contemplating what brought her thoughts to his place makes her blush, but she pressed on. "That night?"

There's no need for elaboration. She knows that he knows what she's talking about, in spite of the silence he gives her.

"I don't know."

He's not lying. He rarely does something without thinking two or three steps ahead. It's how he kept Octavia hidden for so long. Brief moments of impulsivity don't end well for Blakes, but for the life of him he can't articulate why he kissed her, or what he thought would come of it.

Clarke huffs out an aggravated sigh. "Are we just supposed to pretend it didn't happen?"

"Isn't that what we've been doing? Playing pretend?" Up on one elbow, he turns to look at her.

"What?"

"I thought… You're still keeping things from me… Most of the time I have no idea what's going through your head, Princess."

The nickname isn't derisive, it's soft and almost defeated. It's not like him at all. She was gearing up for and argument, but his quiet answer stops her in her tracks. Desperate to change the subject, she asks, "What was it like when I was gone?"

He drops his head back down into the pillow, willing to let go of the unexpected tangent she sprung on him. Rolling his shoulders back, he pretends there's a knot she needs to attend to. It's easier to talk to her when she has her hands occupied and isn't staring holes into him.

It works, and Bellamy tells himself that it's the only reason he enjoys this so much. "Everything was… normal, I guess. Abbey had people looking for you for a while, but she eventually realized you didn't want to come back… No one saw her for days after she called the search parties back in."

Clarke pressed down hard into a knot, easing the tension out of it. It's painful and pleasant all at once. A muffled groan escapes his lips against her pillow. God, how had he never had someone do this before?

She's talking again, and he has to pull his focus to pay attention. "I hate that I did that to her. I didn't understand what it was like for a mother. I think I get a flutter of it with Attie. Sometimes when I look at her it's like my heart is on the outside of my body. It's terrifying."

"I didn't know you felt that way."

Dropping her hands back into her lap, she looks at him sheepishly. "I don't know how it happened, honestly. The moment I found her it was like … Like when lightning races across the sky, and everything that was once pitch black is suddenly as bright as day. Something shifted, and I couldn't put it back where it was supposed to go."

"Suddenly all you can think about is protecting that fragile little creature…"

"Yeah."

The cot creaks, and suddenly Bellamy is sitting up, facing her, an earnestness in his eyes that she's never seen before. It's dim, but he's so close that she can still see the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

Gently, he cups her face, pulling her close to him. His forehead touches hers, the tip of his nose barely skimming the soft skin of her cheek. She vaguely remembers one of the boys on the ark telling her about Eskimo kisses when she was too young to understand that he was flirting. That's not what this is. This is a pregnant pause, his lips hovering just out of reach, the hot breath shaky against her skin.

"I kissed you because I wanted to." He says it firmly, the tone familiar and assertive. Of course his answer would give her no insight into his feelings. He's too careful.

She opens her mouth to protest, but he's already captured her lips, kissing her slowly. It's more gentle than she knew he was capable of, the pad of his thumb fingering the pulse at her neck. She knows what he feels there, her racing heart out of control.

He resurfaces, just as she raises her arms to pull him under with her. Neither of them are inexperienced, and this feels like a natural progression, but he just shakes his head.

"Get some sleep, Clarke. We have a lot of work to do around here, even more now that you've invited a hoard of exiles to our front door." He doesn't get up like she expects, instead pulling her down to join him under the blankets. "I think I'm almost as tired as you. You look like you've been to hell and back."

He's smiling when he says it, looking once again like the confident rebel king that once made her blood boil. It's a side of him she didn't realize she missed.

The last thing she notices before she loses consciousness is steady thumping where her ear is pressed against his chest.


End file.
